


15 October 1940

by Qwyzm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, WWII AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1676624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qwyzm/pseuds/Qwyzm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mary Watson find themselves in the thick of The Blitz without an adequate bomb shelter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	15 October 1940

**Author's Note:**

> written for a friend of mine with the help of [hemingwayapp.com](http://hemingwayapp.com) and various sources ([1](http://worldwar2daybyday.blogspot.com/2010/10/day-411-october-15-1940.html), [2](http://worldwar2daybyday.blogspot.com/2010/10/day-410-october-14-1940.html), [3](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Blitz), [4](https://www.google.com/search?q=balham+station+1940+pictures&es_sm=119&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=N4R5U770HtKdyASEzYDYAw&ved=0CAgQ_AUoAQ&biw=1230&bih=683), [5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYDEb05J9Ik&feature=kp), [6](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/You_Are_My_Sunshine))
> 
> Inspired by [ **After The Bombs** by **The Decemberists**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IN9REo4Le6g)

The Battle of Britain had been raging for 98 days; the War for 411.

But who counted anymore?

What were days when hours lasted eternities inside crowded bomb shelters? What were hours when fires destroyed livelihoods in minutes? What were minutes when seconds decided where a bomb would land its fatal blow?

Years ago, the Watsons had agreed that they would cherish every _millisecond_  together. As tensions built in Europe, so far from home, the pair built a home of their own, marrying after less than a year of courtship.

The outbreak of war had shaken their world, as it shook the entire country, but they would survive as long as they had each other.

The first blow to their relationship came when John joined the war effort. Their first serious fight almost came to blows when Mary insisted on joining him. John had argued, walked out, and come back to argue more, but Mary was stubborn — at least as stubborn as him. In the end, they held each other for hours, remembering their commitment before seeing a recruiter in the morning.

They would survive. They would thrive. They would love each other until the end.

The following months brought challenges. Rationing, the battle raging above their heads and ruining their streets, the occasional domestic. The sirens didn’t help any. They had become commonplace, and though they were grating, morale didn’t suffer terribly. The crowds in shelters could be irritating, and the clean-up efforts were taxing. Weeping wasn’t uncommon, and a few neighbours had fits of madness and nightmares. But in total, despite the death and destruction, the Brits survived anything the Germans could rain down upon them. They even found ways to entertain themselves during the long hours underground.

On the 15th October, the two woke to the sound of sirens, again.

John groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes before turning to glance at the clock on their night stand.

08.02

"Bugger," he muttered, sitting up with a quiet sigh as the movement irritated his aching muscles.

"Up," he commanded, nudging his wife.

Only twelve hours before, a massive bomb had destroyed Balham Tube Station. They had been waiting out the most recent rash of bombings, and stayed to assist in the effort to rescue and revive fellow survivors. Regardless, the cruel fact remained that they only retired to bed a few hours before the blasted sirens rang out yet again. It was a miracle they had slept at all, John thought, grimacing at some grit that stubbornly remained between his teeth.

With a strange lurch in his stomach, John then realised that they didn’t have anywhere to go.

His heart hammered in his chest as he shook Mary harder, shakiness seeping into his voice.

"Mary! Get up. Downstairs, now. Basement."

His thoughts seemed to be as fractured as the streets after bombing. _They had nowhere to go_. Their basement wasn’t bomb-proof. Perhaps he was only hearing the rush of blood pounding in his ears, but his heart clenched with fear that the noise he heard was a plane. _They really, truly had nowhere to go_. He swallowed his fear and focused on his spouse, grabbing a few things on impulse after crawling out of bed.

He darted out of the room as his wife stirred, moaning as the morning light pierced through the blissful haze of sleep.

"John?" she called.

The house groaned beneath her footsteps, and after stashing a few more things in the basement, John met her at the top of the stairs. He took her hand, squeezing gently, and babbled out an explanation.

"The sirens," he explained. "We- We have to go to the basement."

The dawn of realisation in her eyes almost sickened him. The dull haze of irritation that accompanied the sirens sharpened into a calculating, cool demeanour. He could almost see the gears turning in her brain, and then she nodded, a crisp jerk of her head.

"You got the gas masks?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

John, dumbstruck, could only nod. His brain had kicked in somewhere alongside his panic. He had gathered their gas masks, a few blankets and pillows, and some food, enough to last at least another twelve hours. In case they managed to survive that long. If they didn’t — at least they would be comfortable. Most importantly, no matter what happened, they would be together.

"Good," she replied, offering him the warm smile that had melted his heart the first time, and managed to do the same again. Even through his fear, and the taste of burnt rubble in his mouth, John smiled back. He relaxed further as Mary brought her chapped lips to his, and he closed his eyes before squeezing her hand once again.

"We really should head down," he murmured. "I have a little spot set up. We’ll be comfortable."

As they walked down to the basement, still in their pyjamas, John felt his stomach sink. He _had_ heard planes. They were out there — enemy or friendly, the noise was daunting. He held Mary’s hand a little tighter, clicking on a torch once they were in the basement to show her what he had set up.

He gave a small shrug and handed off the torch to let her explore the small space, cringing as he felt the ground shake beneath his feet.

Bombs were falling.

Not immediately close, but close enough to be uncomfortable. Close enough to put them in harm’s way, should fate and an errant German pilot see fit.

John pushed out a short breath and picked at the blankets, making a neater arrangement. He had been in a hurry earlier, although the preparation would all be for nought if a bomb struck. They had both seen the damage, and he couldn’t help but dwell on the possibility that these hours with Mary could be their last on Earth.

He lied down on the pillows and patted the spot beside him. “Sit with me?” he asked, offering a terse smile a few seconds too late. “Plenty of room.”

They had become accustomed to sleeping on the Tube platform, crammed against other Londoners who had sought safety underground. The atmosphere was stuffy, sleep was nigh impossible some nights, and privacy was nonexistent. Still, it was a necessary evil.

Mary had other ideas; he could tell by the glint in her eye, twinkling even as she sat down and curled up to him — she always had been the lighter-hearted of the two. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled a blanket up over their legs. It hit him a few seconds later: they had nothing to distract them from the delicate balance of fate. If everything came to an end, the end would be quick, but until then… they were sitting ducks.

"Fuck!" he yelled, shooting Mary a sideways glance as she pulled back in surprise. "Forgot to bring something distracting," he explained, his voice dropping to a mumble.

He had been so busy planning for their demise that he had forgotten to account for the stagnation that set in after a few hours of waiting.

Mary clucked her tongue, letting out a light sigh as she relaxed against him again. “Had me worried for a second,” she scolded, though her tone held a hint of jest.

John mumbled incoherently, still preoccupied with his stupid oversight. He only pulled himself out of his reflection when Mary poked him in the ribs.

"You’re distracting," she teased, offering a grin in return for his scowl.

"You are!" she insisted. " _You_ distract us. Tell us a story, hm? You’re very good, you know.”

John huffed, thankful that the dim light obscured the flush of pride rising to his neck and cheeks. “I am not,” he shot back defensively. “But if you insist…”

Mary giggled and nodded, urging him forward. “I do, I do,” she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.

John thought for a moment, reviewing the various stories he had penned. Mary had seen those, though — the ones he was proud of, anyhow. He wanted to give her something new. He could use the distraction as well, after all, and recitation would do nothing for their minds. He needed to capture her attention, to see her enthralled, and to lose himself in the unfolding story as it rolled off his tongue.

He hummed, coughed, and then inspiration struck.

"I saw an angel last night," he stated, matter-of-fact.

Mary tilted her head, gazing up with interest. “Oh?”

He nodded. “Mhm. After the bomb.”

His heart started to beat harder as he recalled the events of the previous night. He had barely given it any thought.

Mary remained silent, and he took his cue to explain.

"Um… After the bomb," he repeated, speaking in hushed tones as he gave his voice up to his muse, spinning a tale from his fractured memories.

"The water poured in… like, like Hell, in reverse. Water, and dust, and gas." He could still taste the gas in the back of his throat, choking him. He swallowed past it and pushed forwards. "And I swam and swam… I made it. Pulled myself out. Started looking for you. And… that’s when I saw my angel," he mumbled. "She was standing with a boy, pulling him up and dusting him off. Soaking wet herself, but she didn’t care."

He pulled Mary closer as goosebumps prickled on his skin.

"When we got up to the streets…" He paused, breaking into a sheepish grin as he realised he had fallen in love all over again.

"Mm?" Mary hummed, watching him with gentle, yet persistent attention. She was almost certain about where John’s story was going, but she wanted to hear him finish. She curled closer, sighing contentedly when John cleared his throat and continued.

"Someone lit a lamp behind your head, and um, and with the dust… it looked like a halo." He tilted his head and pressed a light kiss to the top of her head. "I fell in love instantly."

Mary chuckled, but couldn’t discount the sombre underpinnings of John’s conclusion.

They had been struggling; everyone had struggled. Tempers were short, days were long, and they had even slept apart some nights because they couldn’t stand each other. It was reassuring to hear that despite everything — or perhaps, in a sick twist of fate, _because_ of everything, they would be alright. They had never discussed divorce outright, but sometimes they came close enough to cause concern.

John sniffed, nuzzling Mary’s hair as he blinked away a few rogue tears. He had thought, in his panicked, disorientated haze, that Mary might have drowned. Or suffocated. Or God forbid, that rubble had crushed her as she tried to escape. He couldn’t verbalise his relief when he saw her on the street, tending to other people as though she was not a victim herself. It had rushed in with as much force as the water, flushing away any and all negativity.

"Don’t know what I would’ve done," he whispered, not trusting his voice to speak any louder as tears flowed freely.

"Shh," Mary interjected, stroking his chest and wiping his tears away.

His chest heaved as he tried to draw a deep breath, but failed, only succeeding in gasping a few times. Eventually, he found solace in his wife. Together, they levelled the mountain of hurt that had grown between them by admitting to their wrongs. They soothed each other with praise and admiration, reminiscent of their honeymoon conversations. Hours passed without their notice as they lied together, comforting and taking comfort.

The spell was only broken by a rumbling stomach. They parted for lunch, stretching their legs and backs. They bickered about who would go up to check for an all clear. After a brief argument the couple went up together, holding hands even as they tutted about the others’ stubborn streak. A few minutes later, they returned to their refuge together.

John plopped back down onto the soft bedding and sighed, making a face that tickled a giggle out of Mary.

"Oh, chin up," she teased, sitting down beside him with a tiny smirk.

"I’m sore, tired, in my _bloody_ pyjamas, and we’re stuck here. We could be for hours more!” he grumbled, looking away before her smile could soften his resolve to pout.

Mary mocked his melodrama and looked around, searching for a new distraction. She uttered a quiet exclamation when she saw a few sentimental items: their wedding picture, her hairbrush, the bottle of perfume John had bought her with his first decent paycheque. Small, useless comforts; reminders of their relationship in simpler, happier times.

"Why’d you bring these down?" she asked, shooting John a quick look.

"Er…" He scratched his neck and shrugged, a bit embarrassed. "Impulse."

Mary crawled over the blankets and curled up next to him again, gazing down at the picture in her lap. Her lips curled with nostalgic happiness. Her fingers stroked the picture frame before reaching up to John’s cheek and pulling him in for a chaste kiss.

John was grateful for the kiss. It was a sign of approval, and an echo of the easy intimacy that the war had worn thin. He wrapped an arm around Mary’s waist without hesitancy for the first time in far too long, and tucked his chin on her shoulder.

"What are you thinking?" he murmured.

"Dancing," she answered.

"Hm?"

"Dancing," she repeated. "Do you remember our first dance?"

John nodded twice. “‘Course.”

After a moment, his lips curled into a small smile and he murmured, “If you were the only girl, and I were the only boy.”

"The only girl in the world."

"If you were the only girl in the world," he corrected, rolling his eyes, "and I were the only boy…"

"Nothing else would matter in the world today…" she continued, urging him on.

"We would go on lovin’ in the same old way."

After a few seconds of silence, Mary interrupted the song to look at John, laying down the wedding picture on the soft blanket. “Waltz with me.”

The demand was simple but earnest. John’s brow shot up in surprise.

"Waltz with you?" he repeated. "Now? Here?"

"Yes, now, and where else?" she shot back with a pinch of sarcasm. "Would you rather go out to the middle of the street?"

He scowled at her. “Mary, Mary, _quite_ contrary.”

She swatted at him and pushed herself up to her feet. “Waltz with me, John.”

She held out her hand, tilting her head and putting on a pout that she knew would yield John more malleable than wet clay.

He let out a groan, teasing her for her insistence, but took her hand and pulled her close.

"You’ll have to excuse me for stepping on your toes," he mumbled. His dancing had always been questionable at best, even at their wedding.

"You’ll be fine," she whispered, smiling at his evasive tenderness.

They were barefoot, after all; a few trodden toes wouldn’t do much harm. What a pair they were! She in her nightgown and he in his pyjamas, waltzing barefoot in their basement while bombs destroyed the city around them. It was either romantic or mad, or perhaps some incredible mix of both.

Mary gave John’s hand a gentle squeeze, then began to dance. She stepped backwards with her right foot, and after a couple of moments, John realised to step forward with his left. As they grew more comfortable, the movement became more fluid, and soon they were waltzing.

Mary hummed the tune of their first waltz together, mumbling the words she remembered. The music didn’t matter so much as the rhythmic motions of the dance — she was so content to be in her husband’s arms.

Soon, the song ended and their dancing slowed to more of a shuffle. They weren’t dancing so much as holding each other close and moving their feet.

John recalled a song he had heard on a new American record earlier that year, by Jimmie Davis.

He broke into a cheesy grin and leaned down near Mary’s ear.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you."

He paused, tilting his head to kiss her temple.

"Please don’t take my sunshine away," he finished in a whisper.

He buried his nose in her neck, tickling her cheek with his eyelashes as he blinked away his tears once more.

The bombs might take her away, but they would take him with her. Most importantly, nothing could ever take away the love they shared. That would remain their own forever, written in their actions or in the stars; their love would endure.


End file.
